The Conspiracy
by lilidelafield
Summary: An Impromptu Challenge from Section VII. The Prompt: Illya needs a haircut! Waverly is determined that Illya will have his hair cut. Illya is just as determined that he will not. Who will win?


_**A.N: Please forgive the silliness in this tale, but it wrote itself. I was just trying to keep up!**_

Alexander Waverly held up his hand as his two top men got up to leave the room.

"Just one more thing, Mister Kuryakin. I thought I asked you to get a haircut? I cannot have my agents looking quite so overgrown."

Napoleon fought to suppress a smirk as his partner squirmed uncomfortably.

"I er…I did, sir."

"You did?"

"Yes sir."

"When, pray? Last year?"

"Last month, sir."

"Hmmmph!" Waverly snorted. "Mister Kuryakin, if that haystack on your head gets any longer, I shall ask Miss Rogers to put it into a French pleat for you. Now you have until nine o'clock tomorrow morning to reduce the length of that mop or I will be forced to take drastic measures."

Kuryakin looked mutinous, but Waverly had already turned away and it was clear that as far as he was concerned, the interview was over. His face a flaming red, Kuryakin followed Solo from the room. Once they were out of earshot, Solo let loose the snort of laughter that he had been stifling.

"Illya…"

Illya glared at his partner and held up a finger.

"Don't, Napoleon. Just DON'T!"

He started to walk off down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" Napoleon called after him.

"Where do you think?" came the reply before Illya vanished out of sight.

No one saw anything more of Illya that day, but, as always, the Russian showed up the next morning at Del Floria's exactly on time. Napoleon was waiting for him. He stared at the Russian in surprise.

"Illya…I thought you had taken Mister Waverly seriously yesterday when he told you to get a haircut."

"I did!" Illya replied indignantly. "I had an eighth of an inch removed all over. It looks much neater."

Napoleon caught Del Floria's eye and saw the old man in the act of putting his hand over his face. Napoleon shook his head.

"Illya, are you phobic about getting your haircut or something? It looks exactly the same as it did, my friend. Mister Waverly is not going to be convinced."

But Illya was confident.

"We'll see." He replied with a smile.

Two hours later, Mister Waverly held his daily briefing with his two top agents in his office. He said nothing whatsoever to Illya about his hair, and Illya couldn't wait to get Napoleon alone in order to say "I told you so". As they left, however, Waverly cleared his throat. They paused in the doorway.

"A quick word Mister Solo?"

Illya knew better than to hang around, and he left the room and returned to the office he shared with Napoleon. A few moments later, Napoleon joined him.

"Before we start on our reports up here, we have to report to medical."

Illya frowned.

"Medical? Why?"

Solo shrugged.

"Don't ask me. We'd better get it over with though!"

As they reached the doors to the medical room, Napoleon dropped to one knee in order to retie a shoelace. Illya passed him by and walked inside. Napoleon stood up again in one movement as the chief nurse, Naomie sprayed something into Illya's face and the Russian dropped instantly to the floor. Napoleon caught his partner and carried him gently to an upright armchair.

"He is never going to forgive me for this."

"I know." Naomie replied. "That's why you're getting the same treatment!"

Then Napoleon too was hit with the same spray and instantly blacked out.

Illya woke up with a very bad headache. He blinked and struggled to sit up, trying to remember what had happened to him this time. He blinked. Medical again? What the hell? He looked around and spied his partner on the next bed, still fast asleep. Something was different about Napoleon. It took a few seconds for Illya's drugged brain to catch up, and he let out a giggle.

"Napoleon! Napoleon wake up!"

Napoleon opened his eyes and looked round. They rested on his partner, and opened wide in shock.

"Illya…"

"Napoleon, you look…you…" Helplessly, Illya began to giggle again. Napoleon really did look very funny with a crew cut. Napoleon's hand flew to his head, and he felt the almost velvety sheen of hair, shorter than it had been even in Korea. His eyes closed.

"Illya, I am never going to forgive you for this. Never!"

"What have I done?"

Illya was puzzled at Napoleon's accusatory tone, but he was still giggling like a child. Napoleon grabbed the hand mirror from his bedside and crossed to his partner's bed.

"It isn't funny, Illya. You kept refusing to keep your hair at a reasonable length. You kept letting it grow so long it was drooping over your collar and all over your ears, and you know that Waverly will not tolerate sloppiness like that. He has found a way to make sure that we both toe the line in the future. And believe me, Illya, you are _not_ going to do this to me another time!"

He handed his partner the mirror. Illya stared at himself. His head had been shaven so that his hair was the shortest crew cut possible. With Napoleon's dark hair, it looked acceptable. His own hair was so fine and so blond, that he looked virtually bald. Shining pink scalp could be seen clearly through his hair.

A cascade of emotions crashed over him; predominantly anger and disbelief; then he remembered Waverly's repeated requests for him to cut his hair, or to restyle it so that it at least looked tidy, and the creative ways he had come up with to avoid touching his hair. This time, Waverly had definitely won. He had said yesterday that drastic measures would be taken if Illya refused to do as he was told. He stared ruefully again at the shiny pink scalp that peeped through his teeny weeny short hair. This was certainly drastic.

Napoleon watched incredulously as several different emotions played over Illya's face, before finally the Russian's shoulders started to shake with mirth, tears running down his face. Slowly, Napoleon started to see the funny side, and he started to chuckle.

Twenty minutes later, standing in the viewing gallery with Nurse Naomie and doctor Simpson, Alexander Waverly observed his two agents, both still rolling over the bed, crying with laughter.

"I think they got the point, sir." Naomie said softly, Waverly nodded, suppressing a smile of satisfaction. He thought so too.


End file.
